


Temperance Normal

by amaradangeli



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Romance, Smoking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-06-07
Updated: 2010-06-07
Packaged: 2017-11-09 10:37:08
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 12,367
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/454530
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amaradangeli/pseuds/amaradangeli
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>While Bones is away Booth makes some observations about her, about himself and about the two of them together. When she returns she reveals information Booth didn't expect and, more importantly, reveals parts of herself he never thought he'd see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fabulously un-beta'd. I haven't written anything not school related in so…freaking…long. I needed to do something. And, I was sitting here and I had this thing in my head. "It's not normal…" I didn't know what wasn't normal. I had no idea if this was going anywhere. But it went where it went and it's tiny and short and nothing really happens, but it something. I think it might be something more, as well. So, I'm not marking it complete. I might want to explore this a little more. We'll see. But, for what it's worth, this is proof I'm still alive. :-)

It's not  _normal_  the way he gets a tiny thrill just from seeing her name scrawled across the bottom signature line of a case file. The brilliant white paper is smooth and cool beneath his fingertips when he traces the loops in the B of her last name. It's not  _normal_ , he thinks again. He taps his fingers across her name and waits – familiarly the hairs on his thighs stand on end and tickle between his skin and the fabric of his slacks. How can she possibly do this to him? How can just her name, scrawled hastily and with frustration, cause a visceral reaction in him?

He chuckles wryly. It's not  _just_  her name that can do it to him. Earlier in the day it was catching a whiff of her perfume when he unfurled her raincoat from where it had been shoved to the floorboard in the backseat of his SUV. When the goose bumps flared across his shoulder blades he chalked it up to the fact he hadn't seen her in three days. Chalked it up to the fact he wouldn't see her again for twelve more.

He wipes a hand across his mouth to hide a grin from the people on the outside of his glass walled office. She'd been flustered at the airport when he dropped her off. He knows she'd have rather taken a cab. She hates the displays at the airport when people hug goodbye and kiss hello. He suspects her feelings on the subject have more to do with the fact she hasn't had that in her life, really, so she doesn't have quantifiable data on what it  _feels_  like to know someone is either going to miss you or has missed you.

A couple years back he went with Angela to pick her up after a long trip to some hot country. She'd debarked looking wilted and damp despite the recycled air on the plane. But she looked bright and happy in a way he doesn't often see her look at home. He knows, while she loves the work they do together, her heart is with those remains in far off places that couldn't ever be identified but for her and a possible handful of other people around the globe.

It's dinner time. He has half a mind to head over to the diner but he can't convince his body it wants anything more than a slice of cherry pie and a glass of cold sweet tea. She'd seriously disapprove and that makes him smile again. No, it's not _normal_  the way she makes him the happiest of all when she's not around.

See, it's the knowing she's coming back. It's knowing she'll be soft and gentle when she returns because even if she won't admit it – even if she can't name it – she'll have missed him. And he'll know it. It'll make him feel big and strong and he'll be that alpha male she always accuses him of being. Oh, she says it with scientific authority but he sees, out of the corner of his eye, her little smile of approval. She  _likes_  those tendencies in him. He can't explain it – not when it comes to a strong woman like her. But he knows she likes it.

No, it's not  _normal_. She's not normal. He likes that about her. He likes that she can make the hairs on his legs tingle and make goose bumps rise on his skin. He likes that he can't help but grin when he thinks of her. She's not normal and feeling the way he feels about her and not doing anything about it isn't normal. But it's what puts them together, it's what makes them tick. It's not normal. It's Temperance Normal.


	2. Chapter 2

After she's been gone for six days her absence starts to sting him. That's usually about the time it begins and this trip is no different. He gets a pang when he stops in at the diner for coffee to go and their usual waitress comments on his partner's absence. At the Jeffersonian, Cam directs him into Brennan's office for a file and he stands there considering the desk until Angela pokes her head in and gives him that brilliant smile he'd be very susceptible to if it wasn't for  _her_. He grins at Angela, flirts benignly with her – after all, keeping those skills sharp certainly isn't a  _bad_ thing.

While Angela talks to him, leaning casually against the door frame while he perches on the edge of Brennan's desk, he considers the pretty woman. He does what he's done a thousand times before – he compares the two women to each other. It's not fair to Angela that she always comes up a little…lacking…next to Bones. Angela, herself, is a beautiful and vivacious woman. But, he supposes, when the competition is Temperance Brennan, even the most desirable women have a way of falling just shy of the mark.

He chuckles, grasps the back of his neck and toes the carpet. He knows Angela knows she's lost him – his attention, anyway – and she bids him farewell. By the time he thinks to answer her, she's gone. He studies the carpet and thinks back to three days ago in his office.  _Temperance Normal_. It's everything around him. It's the filter through which everything he sees is catalogued. Her large office that puts him more in mind of a living room than a workspace. _Temperance Normal._

He slides his cell phone out of the clip on his belt. He could call her. She gave him a number. But it's a phone that's there and open for everyone. He could call her. He could hear her voice but she'd sound flustered and frustrated at the interruption. Besides, in five more days she'll call when it's dusk wherever she is and he's lying in bed. She always does.

The first few times she couched her calls in the shroud of having remembered something incredibly important he'd need to know for something they'd been working on just before she left. The few times after that the reasons for the calls weren't nearly so important (even if the import had been fabricated to begin with). But the last few times she hasn't come up with any reason at all for the call outside her admission that she just wanted to talk to him.

It surprises him that she still doesn't know what that means. It's not  _normal_  to yearn for the sound of your partner's voice. He knows it's not – he's come to terms with it. But she still thinks it is. Or, at least, she wants him to believe she thinks it is. He suspects she knows it isn't.  _Temperance Normal_.  _Well_ , he chuckles to himself as if he needs justification,  _it is._  Despite the hustle and bustle around her – even at dusk – wherever she goes she waits to call until he's in bed.

He knows, and she'll never admit, it's the sound of his voice. Seeley Booth is a lot of things but stupid isn't one of them. He's had several women over the years tell him that he  _sounds_  different when he's in bed. He shrugs as if there's someone else in his partner's office to see him. He supposes he probably does. And he uses that to his advantage. And she  _always_  waits to call until he's in bed. There's got to be something to that, right?

He likes the sound of her voice, too, when she's on the balcony of whatever hotel she's staying at. He can picture her, sitting in a canvas chair, bare feet propped up on railing, a sweating beer bottle clutched in her right hand and the phone pressed against her left. She'll smoke those chemical-free clove cigarillos she gets every time she heads down there. He always gives her a hard time for it but he loves the way the sweet scent clings to her hair in those first hours after she's home.

He jingles the change in his pocket and slides his phone back into the clip. Five more days. It always takes her eleven days to decide it's okay to call him. He flicks the light switch for her office as he leaves. Eleven days?  _Temperance Normal_.


	3. Chapter 3

The dawn of day eleven finds more pep in his step than he's known since she left. She'll call. He just knows she will. He moves throughout his day with the giddy knowledge that before the night is out he'll hear her voice. He finds himself humming under his breath all day. Once, even, as he cuffed a suspect – there could only be one reason. It had to be  _her_.

Later on, when the red glowing numbers on his alarm clock read 10:00, he lies in bed staring at the ceiling. It's early. Too early for her to call. He knows that. But part of him, the child-like part of him that would still go to bed early in hopes Santa would come on Christmas Eve, thinks going to bed earlier will cause her to call earlier.

When the phone rings it's 11:30. It doesn't even have a chance to complete its first trill before he's got it pressed against his ear. "Hey, Bones. How're you doing?"

She chuckles low in her throat. "You know, one of these times it won't be me."

"It's eleven thirty on day eleven. Who else would it be?"

She sighs. "Am I that predictable?"

"Eh," he exhales, "nothing wrong with a little predictability." A grin steals across his face. "How's the recovery going?"

"It's been raining."

He can hear the slight pout in her voice. "Mmm. Sorry to hear that." He lets his voice vibrate low in his chest.

She sighs again. He hears the flick of a lighter and then her sharp inhale. Then, on her exhale, "The weather's supposed to clear at the end of the week."

"Just in time for you to get on a plane."

"Yes." In his mind's eye he can see her nod.

"Want me to pick you up?"

He hears the dull clunk of a bottle being set down on wood followed by the creak of her chair. He pictures her while he waits for her answer. She's probably in khaki shorts and a tank top; barefooted; hair twisted up messily. "You don't need to do that," she finally says.

"Yeah," he shrugs, "but do you  _want_  me to."

She breathes, "Yes."

It's a personal victory. A handful of years they've been doing this, a handful of years worth of picking her up at the airport even when she'd  _told_  him not to, let alone asked, and finally she admits she wants him to.

She clears her throat. "Two members of the team have contracted a virus. We're incredibly short staffed. The weather's been awful. I'm just…I'm ready to come home."

That gives him pause. She travels a lot. She's traveled to sites plagued by worse conditions than the one she's currently at. She's told him before she was ready to 'come back' but this is the first time she's ever told him she was ready to 'come home'. "I'm ready for you to come home too." He smoothes a hand across his comforter and imagines her skin in its place. "I've missed you."

"I've—" she starts immediately, then falters. He hears her take a long draw on her cigarillo then a pull of her beer. He listens to her take a couple deep breaths. "I've missed you, this time, too."

It's a big admission from her. She's emotionally reserved, sure, but she's not completely inept. He chooses, though, to go for the joke. "Just this time?"

On her end of the phone he hears the sudden deluge of rain. "It started raining again," she says rather than answering his question. He waits and she continues. "Sasha and Nathaniel are here."

He recognizes the names as a couple she's been on several digs with, a couple she's invited to drinks, the last two times they were in DC. He'd met up with them both times. "She's got to be pretty pregnant by now…" he leads as a question.

"She mis—" she cuts herself off as if thinking better of her wording and he suddenly knows what she's going to say. "She lost the baby."

Booth pictures the pretty, young Englishwoman in his mind. "Aw, damnit, Bones."

"I think she's okay." She pauses. "She seems okay. And says hello."

He hums in the back of his throat in acknowledgement. "You doing okay?" he asks. He's not asking because her friend miscarried. Not really anyway. He's asking because of the tone of her voice. She's been remarkably quiet during this phone call.

"Yes," she answers quickly. Too quickly in his opinion, but he lets it go.

"You're awfully quiet."

"Then you talk," she says quietly. "Just…talk to me."

This conversation differs from every one they've ever had before. She's sometimes quiet, sometimes reflective but never melancholy. She didn't quite do it, but he feels like she's just asked him talk so she can just listen. He figures it doesn't really matter what he talks about so he tells her about the last three meetings he sat in. He tells her about Parker's report card. He tells her about buying a new pair of running shoes. About his last trip to the gun range. Half an hour later he realizes the phone call must be costing her a fortune.

"I should let you go." His gut clenches even as the words tumble out of his mouth.

"No!" she says quickly. Then, "It's pretty late there, isn't it?"

"Just after twelve," he affirms. "Bones," he says gruffly, "what's on your mind?"

"I'm not sure I want to say."

She's often honest with him. Honest to a fault. But she keeps some things closely guarded and her feelings are one of them. So to hear her say something that leaves her vulnerable rocks him a little bit. "Bones." He sighs her name in that way that usually gets her talking and she doesn't disappoint him this time.

"I've really  _missed_  you this time."

A smile plays across his lips. "We did this part already."

He can practically hear her eyes narrow at him. "Booth! I'm being serious."

"I know," he responds quietly. "I was giving you an out."

"An out?"

"From the messy emotional stuff you're toying with right now."

"What if I don't want an out?"

The woman infuriated him sometimes. She wanted to have  _this_  conversation  _now?_  She just wasn't  _normal_. Most women want a man front and center when they were ready to talk feelings. She wanted to be half a world away. He chuckled. Yeah.  _Temperance Normal_.


	4. Chapter 4

"I think, sometimes, that things should be different." She says it resignedly and on an exhalation. "That's what Nathaniel told me today."

"And what do you think?"

"I think," she says slowly, "that sometimes they already are."

He starts to temper the grin that spreads across his face then remembers she can't see him so he lets it bloom. " _I_  think you're probably right about that." He stretches lazily in his bed. "Are things…are things different right now?"

On her end of the connection the rain continues to pour down. She sighs heavily and he thinks she's been doing a lot of that tonight. "I miss you. I want to see you. And…I don't think I'd be too upset if you hugged me at the airport."

If he were keeping track of personal victories they'd be starting to stack up.

"You're very broad through the shoulders," she says and he's suddenly lost on the highway of her conversational style.

"Um…thank you?"

"And you're tall. You have a lot of strength in your arms and torso."

He chuckles uncomfortably. "Bones?"

She continues but he can tell she's not really talking to him so much as thinking out loud. "Your body temperature is slightly higher than average and the pitch of your voice is low enough to be soothing but not so low as to be frightening. And you don't wear too much cologne." She says the last in a tone of voice that leads him to believe that's been a problem for her in the past.

"You're saying a lot of nice things about me. Gonna tell me why?"

He can practically hear her pull herself back into the conversation. "I'm not generally the sort of woman who finds herself craving physical affection," she says in a rush as if it's some big secret.

"And you're trying to logic yourself into believing it's okay to want me to hug you?"

"Yes."

"And what about your 'biological imperative' theory? Would you call that 'craving physical affection'?"

"Even I know the different between sex and simple affection, Booth."

He's not sure how to take that. "And what you're craving is affection?"

She pauses as if she  _knows_  what he's really asking is whether or not she'd have sex with him if  _that's_  what she was craving. He can feel her cop out the moment right before she does. "Right now, yes."

"And you figure that all that stuff you just said about me is why you want affection from me?"

"Those are all qualities that I find…appealing."

"In someone you want…affection…from?"

She pauses and he can hear her drum her nails on her beer bottle. "Things are different, you know?"

He does know. He knows all too well especially considering he's discovering she does too. "Hmm," he rumbles noncommittally.

"So you will pick me up from the airport?"

He sighs. She's done. That's unfortunate because getting her talking was a good thing. "Yeah. I'll pick you up. Hug you and everything."

She stammers and he can almost feel the heat of her blush through the telephone. "There's no need to embarrass me, Booth," she says when she finally collects herself.

He chuckles. "But it's so much fun."

"I'll see you in four days."

"Sounds good to me. Good night, Bones."

"Good night."

He waits to hear her hang up before he does and he counts his heart beats while he waits. One. Two. Three. Four. There's a slight hitch in her indrawn breath and then they're disconnected.

He sets his phone back on his nightstand and lays a heavy forearm over his eyes. After a conversation like that he's glad he's recently redefined his concept of normal.

 _Something_  happened down there. Maybe it's the lousy weather. Maybe it's some of her team members getting sick. Maybe it's even seeing the only other friends he knows she has – besides the team at the Jeffersonian – after they lost their baby. Maybe it's something altogether different. But for sure  _something_  happened to make her introspective and bold enough to share her feelings with him.

He won't get to talk to her again until he picks her up from the airport. Those were the only forty-five minutes of her time he was going to get for the entirety of her fifteen days away. Like he usually does he savors the conversation. This one he goes over in his head several more times before he goes to sleep.

She doesn't know what she wants from him – not really. And he's not arrogant enough to believe he's got it figured out either. He knows how he feels about her and he doesn't pull any punches in the privacy of his own mind. But he also knows there's more to it than liking her; loving her;  _wanting_  her. If it were that easy, if it were just those things, it would have already been done. After tonight's conversation he's at least comfortable enough saying she knows how she feels about him too and he's fairly confident they're on the same page. But there's a lot of time and space and landmines between where they are now and where they'd like to be.

Everything starts somewhere, though, and he gets to start in four days at the airport with a hug. He figures that's not too bad. And really, all things considered, it's so  _Temperance Normal_.


	5. Chapter 5

On day fifteen he wakes languidly. Bones wants him to pick her up at the airport. He pauses just before splashing on his aftershave. Now that he's aware she's noticed the way he smells he's afraid he's either going to put on too much or too little. He scowls at his reflection in his bathroom mirror. He's been putting on aftershave for twenty-five years. Why's he second guessing himself now?

Later that afternoon when she's wrapped up in his arms he remembers why he was second guessing himself. She buries her face in the crook of his neck and inhales deeply. Without pulling away she mutters against his skin. "You're the first thing that's smelled right in two weeks." He starts to speak but right behind her he notices Sasha and Nathaniel deplaning.

As if she has eyes in the back of her head she steps out of his embrace just as Sasha notices him and starts tugging Nathaniel in his direction. The archeologists fight their way through the throng of people and Booth shakes Nathaniel's hand then pulls Sasha into a polite hug.

"We need to talk about Temperance," she says quietly near his ear before pulling away from him.

He offers to drop Nathaniel and Sasha at their hotel before taking Brennan home. The four make plans to meet for dinner the following evening and Sasha pulls him aside and asks him to come a half hour early so they can talk.

He has trepidations about his clandestine meeting with  _her_  friend. He considers his remaining passenger, though, as they navigated downtown DC and decides he probably  _did_  need to speak with Sasha – especially if Bones wasn't going to be forthcoming about what had happened while she was away.

He carries her bags into her apartment for her then watches as she turns a slow circle in her living room. "Bones?"

She startles as if she'd forgotten he was there. He watches as emotion wanders across her face. She sighs heavily. "Bones," he tries again, "what is it?"

She shakes her head as if to clear it and he watches a guard gate slam down behind her eyes. "Nothing. It's fine." At his quirked eyebrow she continues, " _I'm_  fine."

He crosses to her and engulfs her in another hug but she stands stoically against him. He fights the sudden urge to yell in frustration. He had  _one_  chance to hug her at the airport and it was cut short of everything it could have been by the arrival of her friends. She was looking for something in him but she hadn't told him what and damned if he could figure it out while holding on to her board-stiff body in her living room. He sighs. "I'm glad you're home." He gives her one last quick squeeze then steps away from her.

She nods. "Me too."

"Well, look," he says uncomfortably, "I have a meeting this evening. I've got to head back to the office. Want to get some dinner later?" He resists the urge to cross his fingers.

She considers him for a moment then shakes her head. "No. I'm going to get unpacked and I'm sure I have a lot of correspondence to catch up on. I'll see you tomorrow at dinner for sure."

He nods and tries to smile at her but he thinks he fails. "Maybe earlier if we get a case."

She hums. "Maybe earlier."

"Okay, well, I'll get out of your hair. Take it easy tonight, okay?"

She nods and he retreats to her door. She doesn't follow. And now he's even more curious about what could have possibly happened at that dig site.

The next day there is no new case and he didn't see her. He would have rather driven her to dinner with Sasha and Nathaniel and it bothered him when he'd had to turn her down when she suggested he pick her up during their one three minute phone conversation that day.

Sasha, in her typical fashion, doesn't make him wait for information, though, as he sit across from her holding a glass of Cabernet. "She's been this way since she found out about her dad," she confides immediately and he finds himself very confused. "I never thought she'd take it so hard – especially not when there's so much they still don't know."

His head is reeling. There's something going on with Max? But before he can form the question she continues, "I think it has more to do with the way Russ told her, you know? I understand he's upset too, but women – even women like her – react differently to news about their fathers than men do."

News about their fathers? "Sasha, I—"

"All I can say," she interrupts, "is thank goodness she has you."

"Has me?"

He figures he must look as confused as he feels because suddenly her face whitens in shock. "Oh, God, she didn't tell you, did she?"

"Tell me what," he grinds out near panic.

Sasha shakes her head as if realizing she's overstepped her bounds. "Booth, I can't—"

"You can't  _not_ ," he stresses. "Jesus, Sasha, you started it. What the hell is going on?"


	6. Chapter 6

"No, really, Booth. I can't. She hasn't told you. I don't know why she hasn't, but she hasn't. But now, at least, you know something has happened and you can ask her about it."

He sighs. "If I ask her what happened she'll know you told me."

Sasha nods. "I can live with that."

"She's gonna be mad at you."

She grins. "I can live with that, too. Temperance doesn't scare me."

"You might actually be alone in that," he says wryly. He watches Nathaniel enter the bar area they are seated in and leans over to kiss Sasha's cheek. "If I was fifteen years younger I'd steal her away from you, you know?" he says as the younger man joins them.

"You could try, mate, but I think you've got your hands full enough as it is."

That's the second time one of them said something that piqued his interest. "I'm starting to think the two of you know something I don't."

Sasha smiles coyly. "What on earth could you possibly mean?"

Booth points at her with the index finger of the hand holding his wine glass. "You said you're glad she has me," he nods at Nathaniel, "and he says I've got my hands full."

The married couple grins at each other. "It feels like we're at university all over again, doesn't it? Insecure chap trying to weasel information about his best girl's feelings out of their friends?" Nathaniel picks up a beer that was on the counter next to his wife's elbow and takes a swallow to hide his smile.

"Oh, I don't know," Sasha replies cheekily, "I think it's sort of cute."

"Gimme a break," Booth grouses good-naturedly. Over her shoulder, Booth sees Brennan step into the restaurant. He supposes the recon mission has been compromised but he can't think of a better reason to have to retreat.

He watches as she scans the restaurant and notices, for the first time since her return, how miniscule she looks. She's always seemed larger than life to him. But the way she blended into the small crowd that spanned the distance between them unsettled him. It wasn't normal and it certainly wasn't Temperance Normal. She's a woman that always stands out in a crowd. Her hair shines, her eyes glimmer, her body causes electricity to spark in the air…usually. But not tonight. Tonight she melts; and it breaks his heart more than a little.

What happened to her father? If it was something big he'd have heard about it from someone else, right? He couldn't have died. Had he been arrested? He supposed, if she didn't tell him tonight, he could run Max's name and find out. If Max was missing, Bones would have called him, right? But somehow, whatever happened, the only people he was sure knew about it were Bones, Russ, Sasha and Nathaniel. And, whatever happened had happened while she was away. He'd have noticed if something had gone wrong before – even if she'd chosen not to tell him.

Through the throng of people their eyes meet and he watches with interest as she exhales in what appears to be relief. Thank goodness she has you… Sasha's voice replays in his head. She's always had him. He's starting to think she knows that now, especially when she makes her way to the bar and stands closer to him than normal – almost in the vee of his legs. The backs of her thighs press against him hard enough to swivel his chair away from the bar. He brushes a knuckle against the hip closest to him, hidden from the eyes of their dinner companions, and watches in fascination as she seems to relax further. She needs him. That's new.


	7. Chapter 7

He can't help but watch her. She sips Cabernet and laughs at the stories Nathaniel tells about a dig in Bahrain. He watches in fascination as laugh lines appear around her eyes but her pupils never sparkle. Even if he hadn't had a conversation about nothing with her while she was at the last dig he'd have known something wasn't quite right. He'd have known even if Sasha hadn't mentioned something going on with her dad. He'd have just known. The way he knows now.

It's not as if they've had time alone since she's been home. He'd barely spoken to her on the phone earlier. But the way she touched him in the bar – as if she didn't even know she was doing it… But the way she's touching him now – the backs of her fingers brushing against his thigh like it's an afterthought. Or, perhaps, a forethought. But certainly not a conscious thought. No, certainly not that.

He tunes back into the light conversation and realizes he's completely lost. Sort of like he was during the conversation they had while she was away. He's spent the better part of the last five years having conversations with her. Why does he feel like the most important and revealing conversation happened over the phone while she was speaking in some sort of feminine code even  _she_  didn't really understand?

He'll call her later, once they're both home, he decides. If the only way she can really talk to him right now is over the phone then that's what they'll do. Even though he's decided the important conversation will happen later he waits as if on pins and needles for something significant to be said over dinner. But Brennan seems completely unaware he's been let into the loop at all and almost studiously ignores the topic of her father – even once Sasha starts talking about hers.

When the check comes he's so relieved he picks it up. He knows it doesn't make sense for him to buy dinner and ignores the quirked eyebrow his partner shoots his way. But signing the credit card slip gives him something to do with his hands. In the parking lot they all stand around and chat for a while as if they didn't have a perfectly comfortable table inside. When he leaves he brushes his fingers across the dip between Bones' shoulder blades and lets the ends of her ponytail tickle his knuckles.

He figures he's got some time before she gets home so he stops by his dry-cleaner's and picks up a couple of suits. He stops at the drug store and buys deodorant. And when he shoulders in his apartment door his phone is ringing. The caller ID tells him it's  _her_  and suddenly he's not so sure he wants to have a conversation. But he accepts the call anyway.

"Hey."

"Hello."

He waits a beat expecting her to continue but all he gets are the sounds of a couple shallow breaths and the rustle of the stiff, crinkly fabric of her blouse. "You okay, Bones?"

She hesitates, hems and haws, then finally, "Yes. Yes, of course. I'm fine."

"You've got something on your mind." It's not a question. They both know he'd know whether or not she had something on her mind.

"I just want to talk."

"Okay." He draws the word out long. "About anything in particular?"

She hesitates again, for long moments he fills by hanging his freshly cleaned suits and stripping out of the one he wore today. "No. Nothing in particular." Then, as if she can see him standing in his bedroom in his boxers she says, "It's late. You should go to bed."

"I thought you wanted to talk."

"I do."

He quirks an eyebrow and smirks though there is no one there to see him do it. He  _knew_  she liked the sound of his voice when he was in bed. "You're different now, you know?"

"I don't know what you mean," she says immediately. Then, "What do you mean  _now_?"

Shit. He meant  _now_  that something had happened with her father. "I mean lately. You're different  _lately_." He slides into bed and tucks the comforter around his hips.

"How am I different?"

"Bones, I've never known a woman who flirted as strangely as you do."

She huffs. "What does that have to do with how I'm different  _lately_?"

"I mean I think you've been flirting with me."

"I have not," she immediately denies.

"You have too. The phone call the other night? The hug at the airport? The way you touched me at the restaurant tonight…" He knows she wasn't flirting. But what she  _was_  doing was so much more important and part of him yearned to hear her say it.

"I wasn't flirting with you." Her voice is quiet and thoughtful.

"No?"

"No. It's just…I find you…comforting."

"All the time or just when you can talk to me on the phone while I'm in bed?"

"All the time," she confirms. "And you sound different when you're in bed."

_Bingo._

"I like it. I can't explain it, but I like the sound of your voice. It's always comforting. But…"

"But what, Bones?"

She hesitates so long he thinks she's going to change the subject. "When you're in bed your voice takes on a very soothing quality."

He chuckles. "I've been told my voice is rougher. An ex told me it was 'grumbly'. That doesn't sound especially soothing. As a matter of fact, it tended to turn her—"

"I suppose it's possible that soothing sounds are subjective."

"You trying to tell me that one of the best tricks I've got in my bag turns me into a great big teddy bear?"

"I said  _soothing_ , Booth. Like a…like a hot bath."

 _Hmm._ He'd take that. "So my voice, when I'm in bed, makes you think of a hot bath?"

"I didn't say that," she says quickly as if she's realized the conversation has treaded into wily territory.

He decides to let her off the hook. "Easy, girl. I'm not trying to put the moves on you."

She hesitates for another long moment and he starts counting his breaths. He gets into the teens before she steals it away. "Suppose that's exactly what I wanted you to do?"


	8. Chapter 8

He nearly drops the phone as he registers what she said. He's more than half tempted to play her game but he realizes he can't. Figuring out what's going on with her – helping her through it – is ultimately much more important. "Suppose," he says carefully, "I wanted you to tell me what happened with your dad?"

She gasps and then is quiet for several long minutes. If it weren't for the sounds of her uneven breathing he'd be convinced she hung up. Finally she tries denial. "Nothing has happened to my father."

"I know that's not true, Bones," he says lowly and calmly. "Sasha mentioned something tonight but stopped when she realized you hadn't told me. Is everything okay?"

She sighs. "I really don't want to talk about it."

"You know it doesn't matter what it is. You can talk to me about anything."

She snorts derisively. "Well, that's certainly not true, now is it?"

Since when had she thought their friendship had conversational boundaries? And if she could call him in the middle of the night just to hear his voices, if she could ask him to hug her at airports, if she could proposition him over the phone with no warning at all…what exactly did she think those boundaries were?

"I've never placed limitations on our conversations."

"You have!" she counters. "But that's not the point. I don't want to talk about my father."

"I don't think that's true. You talked to Sasha about it."

"Because I had no choice!" she says angrily. "She was there when I got the call. If she hadn't have been I wouldn't have said anything at all."

"What happened to your dad, Bones?"

"Don't use that conciliatory tone on me, Seeley Booth, I won't have it. I don't want to talk about my father."

"You won't have it? But you will have me, what? Fuck you into your mattress until you don't have to think about it?"

Oh, he never should have said that. It might be what she'd implied she wanted from him but they didn't say things like that to one another. When they argued, sometimes it was easy to forget she was his friend and partner but not his lover. But, he figures he's already chosen a dangerous path, might as well see it to its culmination. "You thought maybe I could distract you so much you wouldn't have to think about how he's sick? Or how he was arrested again? Or how maybe he's gotten mixed up in more illegal shit? Or that maybe I could kiss the knowledge that he's killed again right out of you? Maybe you wanted me to make you orgasm until you thought you'd died instead of thinking how he had? Just tell me what happened to him, Bones, and I'll give you what ever it is you're looking for."

Her breath shudders and he can tell that he's made her cry. "Jesus, Bones, you've got to be honest with me. Tell me what's going on and I'll help you the best way I know how. I'll even help you wrong – I'll help you however you need me to. Just tell me what the hell's going on." He realizes he's pleading with her but he's angry – though he's not entirely sure why – and he's hurt she thinks there are limits on his friendship.

"Do you honestly believe my father's capable of killing again?" she chokes out. "And do you really think I wouldn't have come to you with that right away?"

"I don't know what to think. You're not telling me anything. You call me up four days ago and the only things you'll talk to me about are the weather and how things are different now and that maybe you'd like a little  _affection_  from me. Then tonight, out of nowhere, you tell me now you're looking for sex. But see, whether or not you wanted me to have the information, I know something's happened in your world and it's gotta be something big. But you won't  _talk_  to me about it." He takes a deep breath and holds it until he's sure the edge will have gone out of his voice. "Bones, baby, tell me what happened to your dad."

"I…I can't…I just…Booth," she sobs, "I don't think I can…I can't do this over the phone."

He's already out of bed and pulling on jeans by the time she finishes. "It's okay. It's fine. It's okay. Just…take a deep breath. I'm on my way over."

"No!"

"What? Yes! You don't have to be by yourself, Bones."

"No, it's not that. I think I'd rather come there."

"You're upset. You shouldn't be driving." Why's she fighting him? She wants him – he knows she does because she's said as much. It doesn't matter why she  _thinks_  she wants him. He knows she does and that's enough. "Let me come to you."

"I've got to get out of here. I'll take a cab.  _Please_."

He can't handle that scared little girl tone she sometimes adopts. "Okay. Okay, Bones. Fine."

"Twenty minutes."

He rakes a hand through his hair and buttons up his jeans. "I'll make the coffee."


	9. Chapter 9

Making coffee, he decides, doesn't take near long enough when you've got twenty minutes to kill. He stands in the doorway between his kitchen and living room and looks around for something to help him occupy his time. He immediately discards the idea of the television – he couldn't pay any attention to it even if it were on. The magazines on his coffee table hold absolutely no appeal. His eyes light on one option after another and each is summarily rejected out of hand.

Somewhere in the back of his mind he's cognizant of the beep the coffeepot emits when its cycle is complete. He presses his hands against the doorframe and flexes through his shoulders and biceps. The slight burn helps him keep his mind off the fact that Temperance Brennan is on her way to his apartment with a hell of a lot more than sex on her mind – though they both know that's why she's really coming. He all but promised her that if she told him what was going on with her father he'd do whatever she needed. And she's convinced what she needs is  _him_.

He's startled by a knock on his door and a quick glance at the clock on the cable box tells him he's been lost in thought the entire twenty minutes she'd told him she'd need. He's unprepared for the frantic look on her face when he pulls the door open.

"I realized, when I was halfway here, you're completely the wrong person to be talking to about this."

He nods as if he follows. "Okay then. What  _am_  I the right person for?"

Her eyes fix on the waistband of his jeans and he's suddenly very aware of the fact he'd failed to get any farther with his dressing than actually pulling on his jeans. He follows her gaze down and finds the button edges are pressed haphazardly between the fly of his jeans and the skin of his lower belly. He presses a self conscious hand against his stomach.

She clears her throat. "But you're not going to give me what I need unless I tell you."

He shakes his head. "No." But he takes a step back from the door and gestures her inside. "Want to take your coat off, Bones?" He finds it strange she'd be wearing a tightly belted trench coat this time of year.

Her hands drop to the tie on her coat before she turns to him and watches him close the door. "I think I should probably leave it on."

 _Oh, Bones_. "Please tell me you didn't get in a cab with nothing on but a trench coat."

Her eyes widen. "No!" she exclaims vehemently. "Of course not."

He cocks his head to the side and advances on her. "Tell me, Bones, what could you possibly be wearing under that coat, then, you're so nervous for me to see?" He stops right in front of her and nudges her hands out of the way of the tie with his own. "You came here so I'd sleep with you, right? There's nothing you could have on under there that could be anymore damning than nudity."

"Nightclothes, Booth, that's all."

He nods and tugs on the belt. It gives way easily and her coat falls open to reveal a men's dress shirt. He recognizes this particular shirt for the swipe of engine grease near the collar – it's the one he was wearing the evening Angela's car had broken down outside Brennan's apartment months before. "You sleep in my ruined clothing?"

Her eyes drop to the floor and he can tell she's embarrassed by this. Funny how she can be embarrassed by wearing his clothing but not by propositioning him. He pushes the coat off her shoulders and catches it as it falls past her fingertips. Then he tries not to focus on the fact she's standing in his entryway in nothing but his shirt and flip flops. He hangs her coat and touches her shoulder gently. "Come on, coffee's ready."

Pouring coffee, he decides, doesn't take near long enough when you have information to process. Before he knows it, they're sitting on his couch, facing one another. "Tell me what happened to your father, Bones."

He watches as her face crumples. Her shoulders start to shake and he sets both their coffee cups aside. "I shouldn't talk to you about this," he thinks she says through breathy gasps that indicate she's trying to get a hold of herself.

"There's nothing you shouldn't talk to me about. Not a single thing. It doesn't matter how bad something might be, Bones, you can always talk to me about it." When she doesn't speak he goes on. "I guarantee there's nothing you can tell me tonight that I haven't already considered as something that would prompt this reaction from you."

She chuckles ruefully, "Don't be so sure of that."

"Just tell me."

"Tell me about when I was gone," she counters. "Tell me something you learned while I was gone."

He's not sure what she'd trying to gain with a question like that but he figures, if nothing else, it'll give her a chance to collect herself. And, really, if she wants to listen to him talk he'll talk himself hoarse just to make her happy.

"I learned you get your very own brand of normal." She cocks and eyebrow at him but doesn't interrupt. "I started calling it  _Temperance Normal_. There are things about you that get me. Things that never got to me when it was other women. But I figure you're pretty damn unique so it stands to reason that the normal things wouldn't do it for me anymore. Not when you're around. And how you're a woman who doesn't believe in love or monogamy or marriage but you're still a woman who'll call me when she's gone, always on the same night of the separation, always at the same time of night when she  _knows_  I'll be in bed just so I'll talk to her the way I might talk to a lover. And I used to think it was strange but _you_  made me redefine my concept of normal."

She takes a deep breath she doesn't exhale until he reaches out and runs a finger of the line of grease near the collar of the shirt that used to be his.

"So now, I'll ask you again. Bones, tell me what happened to your father."


	10. Chapter 10

He's not prepared for the way she seems to fold in on herself. He's watched her go through a lot. Hell,  _he's_  put her through a lot. But he's never seen her look weak or broken. He expects she'll be silent while she processes whatever it is that's caused her to shrink away from him but she surprises him by speaking.

"He's in a coma, Booth. An adverse reaction to some anesthetic."

When he'd told her he'd thought of every possible eventuality, he realizes, he was wrong. He'd never have dreamed she'd tell him she had to watch her father go through the very same thing she'd watched  _him_  go through. He takes a deep breath and prepares to tell her something – anything – that might possibly be helpful.

She beats him to it, though. "He's not young like you, Booth. Not strong like you. He might not be okay like you."

"Bones," he sighs, "the way you explained it to me, comas are unpredictable things."

"The doctors were fairly certain you'd regain consciousness," she says sounding more like herself than her previous outburst.

"And they're not as sure about your dad," he surmises.

"They're not. He's already been in the coma seven days."

"What kind of surgery?" he asks gently.  _Please_ , he begs, _don't let it have been any kind of brain surgery_.

"Cardiac. He had an emergency bypass procedure."

He nods. "And where is he? Is he still in North Carolina with Russ?"

She mimics his nod. "Yes. In a hospital in Raleigh."

He reaches for her but his fingers land of the cuff of her shirt. He fiddles with the button and the soft skin of her inner wrist. "Do you…Should you be there?"

This time she shakes her head emphatically and grasps the hand that had been toying with her cuff. "I can't. I know I _should_  be there…I just can't."

"It's okay," he murmurs soothingly as if he understands. But he doesn't. He  _knows_  she's strong enough to deal with this. She's practically the self-proclaimed queen of compartmentalization. What's happening to her right now is the particular brand of normal – not the one he's come to associate with her. "It's okay," he says again. "Nothing says you have to be there if you don't want to be there."

She traces the blunt edge of his fingernails with the pad of her thumb. "Russ says he needs me there. He says he thinks I _should_  be there – whether or not he needs me. But I just can't do that tonight."

"You need to do  _this_  tonight," he speculates.

"Yes," she nods definitively. "And then tomorrow I can do that. If…"

"If what, Bones?"

"Do you think you could possibly go with me?"

Oh, now, this is definitely abnormal. Leaning on him not only by choice but by request? "I could go with you tomorrow."

"What about work?"

"I'll cite a family emergency."

"So now you'll do what I need you to do?"

He shakes his head solemnly. "Now you'll tell me why  _this particular_  reaction from you about your dad's coma."

"That wasn't part of the deal," she says indignantly, but doesn't disentangle their hands. "You said you'd do whatever I needed if I'd just tell you what happened to my dad." Her eyes well with tears again. "You said you'd help me forget if I just told you."

He tugs her toward him by their connected hands and she winds up in an awkward position over his thighs with her head against his shoulder. "I'll help you forget," he whispers reassuringly, "if you'll help me understand. Why do you need to forget?"

She shifts until he shifts and all of a sudden they fit together like puzzle pieces. "As soon as I see him in that bed it's going to be real."

He rumbles a non-response and presses a slow and gentle kiss against her forehead. "What else?"

"It took everything I had to sit next to you while you lay there in a coma."

He kissed her eyelids as they fell closed in memory. "Don't you think this might be different?"

"Different in what way?" she asks breathlessly as his lips descend to her face again, bypassing her visibly needy lips for her jaw line.

"Different in that it's your  _dad_  in that bed – not me. We're not really still going to pretend I'm just some guy,  _just_  your partner, are we? And that maybe there's a real difference in the way you feel for me and the way you feel for him."

"Are you trying to get me to say I care for you more than I care for my father?"

"No, of course not. I'm trying to get you to understand there's a difference between what you feel for me and what you feel for him. That maybe, then, your reaction to seeing him there in that bed will differ from your reaction when it was me."

"When it was you, I wrote a story about the two of us being married."

"I know." He drops a tender kiss onto her nose.

"Watching you while you were in the coma was extraordinarily difficult, Booth. I'm not sure I've entirely recovered from that experience."

"Which is why you need me to help you forget," he deduces. "You don't need me to help you forget about what happened to your dad, you need me to help you forget about what happened to me."

She nods. "Yes. Can you do that now? I've more than held up my end of the bargain."

"Yeah, Bones," he says as he gently lifts her off of him, stands and pulls her to her feet. "Come with me. I'll help you forget."


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow I knew, before I even started writing this chapter, that this one would turn into the beast of the story. It's more than quadruple the length of any chapter that came before. I mean, seriously, did anyone think I could do smut (although this really turned out less smut and quite possibly the most emotional sex scene I've ever written – which considering my views on sex is really saying something!) in 1000 words? And wrap a story? Yeah, we're talking pipe dream here people. Anyway, this one is done.

It's not fair, he thinks as he leads her to his bedroom, what his coma did to her. He's put the squeeze on her a few times now when it's come to his life being in the balance. He's either getting blown up, or shot, or sliced open on an operating table, or, as he is at this moment, staving off a heart attack – because there she is, standing unsurely next to his bed with her fingers on the buttons of a shirt that used to be his.

He'd imagined this moment in thousands of different scenarios but not in the first one had she ever appeared  _unsure_. "Are you sure this is what you want?" he asks quietly.

Her fingers freeze on the third button down from where she started at the collar of the shirt. "Yes, of course." She tilts her head to the side a little. "Why?"

He shrugs as if it wouldn't matter to him in the slightest if she changed her mind. "Because you look nervous."

He watches the muscles in her slim neck flex convulsively as she swallows. "I  _do_  feel a little nervous," she finally replies.

"We don't… _you_  don't have to do this, you know."

She shakes her head quickly with wide eyes but answers in the affirmative: "Oh yes, I do. I  _need_  this, Booth. Please," she pleads in the most uncharacteristic manner he could imagine, "help me forget.  _Help_  me not be nervous."

He takes two large, swift steps toward her and then they're so close together her breasts brush against his chest every time she inhales. The backs of her hands, where her fingers are still on that third button, tickle against his upper abdominal muscles. The side of one of his bare feet rests lightly against the foam sole of her flip flops and, abruptly, he drops to one knee before her. With gentle hands on her calves and ankles, he lifts her legs and slips the shoes off her feet.

He looks back up at her from his vantage point at about her navel-level and her fingers still have a delicate hold on that third button. "You know," he says with as much lightness as he can muster considering the circumstances, "that button isn't going to undo itself."

She huffs out a breath somewhere in nature between exasperation and humor but slides the plastic disc through its hole and moves on to the next. From his place at her feet he watches as the two halves of the shirt relax away from each other. She's revealed to him a small expanse of pale, creamy skin with shadows playing across it. And while he tracks those shadows as far as he can, she pops the fourth button. Then the fifth. Then the sixth, and all of a sudden the shirt halves are clinging gallantly to roundness of her breasts and revealing a tantalizing view of what appear to be pastel pink cotton panties  _god is she trying to kill him_?

He exhales strongly in an effort to calm himself as the blood starts zinging through his veins. His breath flutters the now unbound shirt tails. Moments ago he'd resisted the urge to rub his cheek on the soft cotton just beneath where he imagined her belly button to be but now he's eye to eye with it and the only thing for him to rub his cheek against is the silken skin of her belly. He thinks, perhaps, he's done at least something a little right during his lifetime.

Her breaths are shallow as he reaches up and pushes the halves of the shirt aside with the backs of his hands until he can grasp her cotton-covered hips. And still that shirt somehow preserves her modesty. He's just about to slide his jaw against the newly-bared, smooth skin when he realizes he'll give her whisker burn if he does.

She must see his hesitation because she asks him, "What is it?"

With his hands still on her hips he leans back from her until he's got a clear view of her face. "I haven't shaved, I don't want to hurt you."

"But, you want to touch me there?" she says with more vim and vigor than he's heard from her since she walked in his front door. She waits for his nod. "Then, perhaps you should use something other than the whisker-covered parts of your face."

He can't hide a small grin. She'd chosen her words carefully. He tips his head forward until his forehead falls against the slight rounding of her belly that tells him, while she's fit, that her shape is natural, not gym induced. And all of the sudden, kneeling before her, his hands cupped around her hips and his forehead pressing against the true heart of her, feels like the most intimate moment of his life. His breath catches and he covers quickly by lifting his head just enough to swipe the broad flat of his tongue against the very place his forehead had rested a heartbeat before.

Her muscles quiver against his tongue so he's either tickled or surprised her. To find out which, he does it again. This time, she's still beneath his tongue, so he chalks it up to surprise and dips his tongue into her belly button. The part of his brain that doesn't have to concentrate on seduction is in a state of shock. He can't believe this is really where they've ended up. He'd half thought she'd change her mind or that he'd stand his ground. But, it's true he'd only  _half_  thought either of those things. He'd also half thought it was more than time they end up exactly where they were.

"I've hidden behind fear so long," she breathes in an eerie echo of his own thoughts.

She presses back against the mattress and sits so he's kneeling between her legs. And still, that damnable shirt clings to her breasts in such a way the only thing he can see is the inner swell and then a bit of the way their weight forces them to cup.

"I've been so afraid of what would happen if told you what I wanted from you. You were so clear about getting involved with people you worked with: the end of your relationship with Dr. Saroyan after Epps; your complete disregard for Agent Perotta's more than evident interest; the fact that there's obviously a connection between us. But it doesn't matter to me anymore. I know there's a reason you didn't want this, but  _I_  want it. And tonight, that's enough."

"You'd use me? You'd just take from me, if that's all I had to give?" He hopes he didn't sound as lost as he thinks he did.

"Of course not," she says and runs a hair back through the hair at his temple. "If I honestly believed you didn't want this, I'd never make you do it. But you  _do_  want it – how could I not tell? – and I want it and, well, right now I don't need it to be more." He thinks hurt must have flashed across his face because her eyebrows knit together and she says, "Is that okay? Do you  _need_  it to be something more than just this, right now?"

His hands had fallen to her thighs when she sat so he started stoking the expanse of bare skin. "No," but his voice sounds choked even to himself.

"Are you sure? I hadn't thought about what it might cost you to give me this."

"Why," he snorts derisively, "because I love you?"

"Well," she says as if that information were nothing more than a foregone conclusion, "yes."

He sighs and leans forward to press his face into the valley between her breasts. "But also, because you love me too," he says against her sweet smelling skin.

"Of course I do," she says as she continues to run her fingers through his hair. "Even if I can't trust entirely in that emotion."

"No one can. Not really, Bones. It's a leap of faith. But this? Right now? Yes, it can be enough. It  _is_  enough."

"And the cost, Booth? Can you bear it?"

He turns his head so his lips rest against one perfect breast. "Do you still think that sometimes things should be different?"

She can't prevent the shiver his breath cascading across her skin causes. "I do."

He purses his lips just slightly to press and almost-not kiss to her breast. "This is different."

"Yes," she nods and lets the hand that was running through his hair dislodge the shirt until it exposes the breast he's been nuzzling, "it is."

"There's no cost, no collateral damage, so long as you love me, Bones."

"Of course I do," she repeats.

He flicks his tongue against her newly exposed nipple and revels in her shudder. As she begins to speak again, he latches on and draws on her lazily. "This is the best kind of different because it's you." Her hand cups the back of his head and presses him further into her breast.

He uses her distraction to his advantage and flicks the other half of the shirt off her neglected breast. He'd always had an intense desire to know what her hardened nipple feels like against the palm of his hand and now he relished the new knowledge.

"I've wanted you for so long," she moans as his mouth and hand work in tandem.

He sucks at her deeply, in response, since she's still holding him firmly against her skin.

"This is going to be a terribly romantic sounding notion," she says breathlessly, "but it feels like you could draw up the very nature of who I am by doing that."

His answering grin breaks his suction and he presses back against her hand. She releases him easily. "That  _was_  a terribly romantic notion, Temperance Brennan. You've been so differently lately." He's surprised when she meets his eyes.

"I've had a lot of time to think."

"About things being different?"

"Yes."

"And," he leads quietly…

"And I think I'm ready for things to be different. I can't say it'll all come easily. And I can't say I'll feel this amenable to the idea when dopamine and endorphins aren't flooding my system. But I do believe I'd like to take the next logical step with you."

He chuckles. "Now  _that_  sounded more like the you I'm used to." Something strikes him then and he doesn't want to ask but he feels like he has to. "You're not just telling me what I want to hear so I'll have sex with you, are you?"

Her eyes soften, "Oh, Booth, I couldn't do that to you. I'd never  _use_  you. You have to believe that."

She drops her head down to meet his eyes and he stretches up to her and kisses her for the first time since this interlude began and whispers into the open cavern of her mouth, "I believe you."

After that he has better uses for his lips. Just kissing her rivals some of the most intense sexual experiences of his life. She is wanton beneath his mouth – her lips sometimes yielding and pliant then immediately becoming firm and aggressive. Her tongue strokes his lips, the ridge of his teeth, his gums, and, for many tortuous minutes, his own. As they kiss he pushes her back across the bed until she is stretched across it in the wrong direction and her head falls over the opposite side of the mattress.

Her back arches in deference to the position and he takes a moment to really revel in the way her shirt barely clings to her arms. She's like a mirage spread out below him – all pale skin and long limbs and the most sinfully decadent breasts he's been privy to in person. When she mewls impatiently he realizes he's been looking his fill for quite a bit longer than she has tolerance for.

He kneels between her spread legs and gently disentangles her from the shirt. He torments her with soft caresses across the newly bared skin as well as indulging in a few more licks, nips and sucks across her chest. And by the time he's completely divested her of the shirt, when his gaze wanders down to her pale pink panties, he notices the fabric of the cotton between her legs has turned a tantalizing darker pink.

He can't stifle his groan. He's always loved seeing the evidence of a woman's arousal – he's not sure if it makes him a dog or not – but being able to see how wet she is, when she isn't even naked yet, reduces him to his basal instincts. Which is how he justifies ripping those pale pink panties right off her body with such force he not only drags her toward him a foot but also leaves angry red lines across her alabaster skin where the fabric digs into her skin before it rends.

She pops up, props herself onto her elbows then regards him with shock. She seems to search his eyes for something then a lazy smile spreads across her face. Very slowly and oh-so sexily she purrs, "Ouch."

Her playfulness on the heels of the deep emotional connection they made only minutes ago makes him love her even more, though he'd have never thought it possible.

"What are you thinking about right now?" He nearly kicks himself for sounding like a teenage girl.

"I'm thinking I'm glad those were not La Perla."

"What's La Perla?" he asks as he drops down to run his tongue alone one of the red slashes.

"Lingerie." Her hips twitch as he lifts his lips away from her body.

"Expensive lingerie?" He kisses the line on the other side.

"Very expensive lingerie." Her head drops back restlessly.

"Do you happen to own any of this very expensive lingerie?" He snags her around the waist and twists until he's on his back and she's straddling his hips.

"In fact, I do," she says cheekily as she reaches down and straightens the fly of his jeans until the edges aren't pressed against his skin anymore.

Her humor fades as she trails her fingers up and down his stomach. "What are you thinking about now?" he asks quietly.

She presses her hand over the bullet wound in his chest. "Exactly how close I came to never experiencing this moment."

He wraps his fingers around her wrists and pulls her down until her lips hover above his. "You're not supposed to be remembering that right now."

"So, help me forget."

Generally speaking he'd detour. Usually, he'd pin her arms down to the bed and lick every inch of her body until she begged him to go down on her. He'd tongue her until she came in a rush into his mouth. As a general rule he'd then let a woman torment him in any way she saw fit.

With her, on this night, though all he could do was struggle until his jeans were halfway down his thighs. She'd sat back just a little when he began his struggle with his pants and once he'd sufficiently freed himself she'd slid back forward until the picture she presented was deliciously dirty. He was so hard he thought it was possible he hadn't been that hard in ten or fifteen years. With every breath they took the head of his impossibly hard cock brushed against her stomach. One day, far into the future when he was finally able to be naked in a room with her and not have to  _immediately_  be inside her, he'd like to see if he could come by just that gentle stimulation alone because at this moment he thinks he probably could.

While he's still contemplating that possibility she becomes impatient and takes him in hand. He catches up with her just in time to watch her impale herself on him and start to slide slowly, so, so slowly, down his shaft. His eyes want to slam closed but he fights it – torn between the beauty of their connection and the sight of the arch of her long, graceful neck as her head falls back in rapture.

"Oh, God, Booth," she pants and he's glad she did because he'd all but forgotten his name.  _That's right_ , he chuckles to himself,  _it's God_.

"I knew this would feel this good. There's no way you wouldn't have felt this good." He knows he sounds like a complete sap. But he figures he's allowed considering they love each other.

She rocks against him with the most languid pace he could conceive of. "I have to admit, generally speaking I enjoy sex to be fast – always surging toward the finish line. But," she breaks off to moan, "I find that I want to go as slow as possible right now so this doesn't end."

He surges up into her – he can't help it. "That's not very," his hips buck again as she gives him a particularly tight squeeze just before her upstroke, " _rational_  of you."

She leans forward and braces her hands on his chest changing their angle in a way that makes them both groan with pleasure. The pads of her thumbs swipe across his nipples and he can't help but surge upwards until she leans down to meet him for a sloppy kiss. When she breaks away from him he's oddly proud to see her lips shining with his saliva. "You're fucking the rational right out of me," she says brazenly and a pink flush starts mottling her chest.

"You're close."

"How could you possibly know?" she pants.

"I know you. I know things about you I shouldn't know, things I have no real way of knowing, which means I know you in a way no one else ever can."

"Yes," she concedes and he's sure she's conceding to his second statement though she directly addresses his first, "I'm close."

"Good," he grunts, "because I'm close, too."

She stills above him, "I want to be on the bottom when you come."

"Why?" he asks, genuinely confused though it doesn't really matter to him.

"It's stupid," she says and begins to move again.

"Nothing you want, especially nothing you want while we're in bed together, could ever be stupid."

"I don't want you to read too much into this, okay?" she asks as she bites her lip yet her hips continue to rock.

He's working hard to stave off his orgasm as they have this conversation. "Okay," he leads.

"I was just thinking, if you were over me when you came, I'd know what it felt like to be consumed by you."

 _Is she serious_? He reaches up and stills her hips, gripping them tightly with trembling hands. He wants to say something but there's nothing he could really say that wouldn't somehow diminish the magnitude of the moment. So, instead, he rolls them over until she's beneath him, her thighs akimbo and gripping his hips. Until his weight rests on his elbows and his hands are buried in her hair and her head rests in his loving hands before he surrenders her to the pillow. She reaches around and wraps him into a tight hug that forces his head into the crook of her neck, until her arms can bind tightly around his back. Until nothing separates their bodies but a fine sheen of sweat and the slight rocking of his hips. He wants to piston into her until he possesses her.

But she doesn't want to be possessed, she wants to be consumed. So, he lets a hot fire build between them until she begins to keen and the pink flush races up her neck and down to her belly button and then she begins to quake beneath him. Her pulse thunders against his lips on her neck. The slick, hot walls of her pull on him until he loses the finer details of her orgasm to his own. His heartbeat is a dull roar in his ears – like that moment when everything dims to a pinprick just before you pass out. His muscles quiver as if they were still working to hold him up when in fact he's nothing more than dead weight on top of his partner.

His partner who is, if the keening and quaking are evidence, still coming.  _It's been – what? – forty-five seconds, a minute?_  "Bones, you okay?" he whispers against her ear.

Her keening stops at the soft sound of his voice but her body still convulses but then it slows until sometimes it's five or six seconds between tremors.

"Were you consumed?"

She nods against his shoulder and he feels a hot tear roll down between their faces where they're pressed together.

"Did you forget?"

"Yes," she whimpers.  _Whimpers_. And he reminds himself that in this room, in this way at least, his  _is_  God.

"This is normal now," he asserts strongly and pulls back so she can see the seriousness in his eyes. "Got it, Temperance?" he says for emphasis. "Normal."

"Yes."

"We've got more to talk about."

She only nods.

"How about tomorrow in the car?"

"You'll go? Really?"

"Of course, 'really'."

"Thank you."

"It's just the way things are now."

"Temperance normal?"

He chuckles, "Yeah."


End file.
